The journey back was hell.
Tiber had walked for three days through the Mountains of the Moon, bones aching, bruises blooming purple and yellow across his body. His face was swollen from the broken nose, and every breath rattled his ribs like cracked porcelain. He hadn't eaten. His vision blurred more often than it didn't.
But he kept going.
Because Pebbles was waiting.
At last, the trail dipped, the trees thinned, and he reached the small lake near the base of the cliffs. There she was, standing alone at the water's edge—Pebbles, his stubborn gray mare. She raised her head when she saw him, snorted, and trotted toward him.
Tiber stumbled from the saddle and fell to his knees.
"Good girl," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "You waited for me."
He whispered a prayer to the Seven—not because he was devout, but because he didn't know what else to say.
Then he climbed into the saddle, clutching Pebbles' mane, and gave her one word:
"Home."
Pebbles took off at a gallop, and before they left the lake behind, Tiber blacked out.
He woke in his own bed, aching but alive.
The ceiling beams above were familiar. The scent of herbs and boiled water lingered. Ser Rickon sat beside the bed, looking ten years older than he had three days before. His face was pale and drawn, but his eyes still held that same quiet steel.
"How long?" Tiber rasped.
"Four days, lad." Rickon leaned forward. "You were half-dead when Pebbles got you here. Fell off her right outside the gate."
Tiber winced, trying to sit up. "I… I did it. The chief of the Burned Men. He's dead."
Ser Rickon's mouth quirked into a rare, proud smile. "I know. Word travels. Even among wild men, tales grow fast."
Tiber sagged back against the pillows, closing his eyes.
"Rest." Ser Rickon's voice was firm. "There'll be time for talk later."
And so Tiber slept again, this time without dreams.
Two weeks passed.
The bruises faded. His ribs still ached, but he could walk straight. His nose had set crooked. It didn't matter. He felt stronger, harder—not just in the body, but in the mind.
He stood by the hearth one morning, stretching out his shoulder, when Ser Rickon came up behind him.
"You say you're healed?" he asked.
Tiber nodded. "Mostly."
"Then come."
They walked through the hall and into Ser Rickon's room, a sparse place of stone walls and old tapestries. There was a heaviness in the air, something solemn.
Ser Rickon pointed at the bed. "Move it."
Tiber blinked but obeyed. It was heavier than it looked, but he dragged it aside, revealing a wooden hatch beneath.
"A secret?" Tiber asked, eyebrows raised.
"A gift," Rickon replied. "Now open it."
Tiber lifted the hatch, revealing a narrow staircase of stone descending into the dark. They made their way down slowly—Ser Rickon leaning heavily on the wall, each step labored.
At the bottom, there was a single chest. No dust. No cobwebs. As if it had been waiting.
Ser Rickon walked to it, kneeling with effort.
"Need help?" Tiber offered.
Rickon chuckled. "Not yet, boy. Not just yet."
He opened the chest.
What lay within made Tiber's breath catch.
A longsword, sheathed in black, rested on crimson cloth. The crossguard curved upward, engraved with intricate filigree. The grip was wrapped in worn leather, and at its pommel, a glittering purple gem shone—an amethyst, deep and royal.
The scabbard alone was art. But when Ser Rickon drew the blade—
Tiber's eyes widened.
The Valyrian steel was unmistakable: dark, rippling, a shadow given shape. The light caught the folded waves in the blade like moving water.
"Gods…" Tiber whispered. "That's—how do you—?"
Ser Rickon's face was calm. "This blade is yours now. Kneel."
Tiber dropped to his knees, eyes never leaving the sword.
Ser Rickon raised the blade above his shoulders and spoke, voice strong despite his age:
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave, In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just, In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent, In the name of the Maid, I charge you to honor and defend all women, In the name of the Crone, I charge you to respect the laws of gods and men, In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be diligent, You shall uphold these vows until the day you meet the Stranger."
The blade tapped his shoulders. Then Ser Rickon lowered it.
"Arise, Ser Tiber. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
Tiber stood, stunned. Ser Rickon offered the sword to him, hilt first.
He took it with reverence.
"Does it… have a name?" he asked.
Ser Rickon nodded. "Twilight. The last blade seen before the night falls."
Tiber ran a hand over the leather-wrapped hilt. "A sword like this… it's priceless. Lords would kill for it. Kings would pay millions."
Rickon only smiled. "I found it in Essos. Long ago. I haven't told you everything about my past, Tiber."
Tiber glanced up. "You were in Essos?"
"I was many things, in many places," Rickon said. "But that's a tale for another day. Now—go. Try your blade."
Tiber stepped into the forest beyond the house, sword in hand. The wind stirred the leaves. The steel hummed in his grip—lighter than air, and yet deadly sharp.
He found a pine tree, thick with bark.
He swung once.
The tree split clean in half, the trunk sheared through as if it were butter. The top half crashed to the ground, birds scattering from the branches.
His hands tingled from the force—but there was no jolt, no resistance.
Twilight cut through everything.
He trained for hours—slashes, thrusts, parries. Each movement flowed smoother than with any blade he had ever held.
The sun set. He watched its last light shimmer on the blade's edge.
Then he sheathed Twilight and walked home, the knighthood heavy on his shoulders, but not burdensome.
He felt ready.
For the world.
For what was to come.